Whispered voices try to comfort me
and I say that I am doing fine-
I do not know how to miss
something that was never mine.
We were both forces of nature
on opposing sides most days
a chess board just for us of
attacking and counterattacking plays.
I can remember both the good and the bad
and find sleep with ease tonight
without having to wonder if
the decisions I made were right.
You and I were veterans of funerals
and you were ready to take your turn
but I’m still here with a whisky neat
thinking of you while I enjoy the burn.
I will wear a black dress once again
but without your hand to hold
amongst the tombstones I will know
it is a privilege to grow old.

There is a wharf I like to walk
where the pieces of broken bottles
break upon the shore until
their edges are smoothed and they
become lovely, polished sea glass
that accumulates in the pockets of
vacationers perusing beaches.

I never collect these shiny baubles
because I have always felt that
the metaphor would suggest
that we, the broken and jagged
just need to be worn down until
someone finds us safe enough
to add to their collection on shelves.

I am not pretty like the girls
that are champagne and roses-
I tend to favour the company
of whiskey and dahlias and
lipstick darker than my blood.
Ink on the tips of my fingers
has become my manicure of choice
and I wear more black than
a nun at night, but consider this:
maybe my sense of beauty
comes from the lack thereof.

Please do not be afraid
to sacrifice what others call beauty
in order to be who you are.

When your heart has been
kept in a cage for so long
and the prison guard
finally sets it free
it will hurt and ache
around the edges until you
realize it isn’t heartbreak
it’s you regrowing your wings.